


The Patchwork Boy

by isildursheir



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Happy Ending, Healing, Mentions of Past Torture, Spoilers for A Conjuring of Light, i just want holland to be happy ok, i wanted to give him an ending he DESERVED, mentions of past rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 05:57:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18329999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isildursheir/pseuds/isildursheir
Summary: “You said you have nothing here, but you don’t have anything where you’re from, either. And I’m offering you something. Another chance. Another life.” His gaze flicked back up to Holland’s, full of sincerity. “An opportunity to heal.”--In which Kell actually tries to convince Holland to stay in Red London. In which Holland actually stays.





	The Patchwork Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be clear! I am PERFECTLY content with the way VE Schwab ended this series! I think all the endings are perfect. (Yes, even Holland's ending; it made the most sense.) HOWEVER, I was absolutely DESTROYED by Holland's character in the third book (after not really caring about him AT ALL in the first two), and even though I think his ending was what was most plausible and needed for him as a character, I also finished reading A Conjuring of Light and immediately started to write this. Because what the heck. Holland deserves to be HAPPY. And Holland/Happiness is my new forever OTP. 
> 
> So here, have this self-indulgent happy ending for Holland. I cried. It was lots of fun. 
> 
> (I apologize if anything is OOC or inaccurate to the book. I think it's all fine, but I literally finished the book last night and was such a mess that I just pushed this baby out without double-checking anything. Bear with me.)

_ Happy _ .

Holland turned the word over in his head, contemplating it, as one would contemplate a language that one could understand by sound alone but could not decipher when written on a page. It was somehow familiar but also so terribly, unspeakably foreign. 

_ Happy _ .

Holland knew he had known happiness, once, in a different lifetime, and even that happiness was stolen, stale, sour from the memories that distorted it now. He had known happiness in the form of Alox, his brother’s solidity and steadiness a balm to the unchecked power thrumming through his veins, his brother’s laughter an anchor, his constant presence a safety net. Until he tried to kill him.

And then he had known happiness in the form of Talya, that wild beauty, that singular colorful thing in a world so deprived, so bleached of color. His lover’s affection had healed him from his brother’s betrayal, had soothed something within him, had let him believe that it was okay to trust again, that it was okay to love, that there were things in this corrupt world that wanted to see him dead that were worth the risk. He had opened himself up to her in a way he never had to anyone else before (in a way he never would to anyone else ever again). She made him feel warm, in a life spent so long in the cold. 

Until she tried to kill him.

And finally, he had known happiness in the form of Vortalis, although Vor’s brand of happiness was much different from Alox’s or Talya’s. There was a certain degree of trust between them, but it was by no means absolute; Holland was unsure he had it in himself to trust someone wholly again. Wherever trust was lacking, respect was absolute, and even if they were both a little damaged, even though their friendship had been forged from assassination attempts and built on a foundation of murder and bids for power, that was what they were -  _ friends _ . For the first time in his life, Holland had a friend, and for the first time since Talya, he wasn’t constantly worrying about what Vor’s intentions were. The other man’s intentions were clear, had always been clear since they’d struck their bargain: he did not want to kill Holland for his power. And for Holland, in this London, in this life, that was enough. Even if his heart was too heavy to take on the full burden of happiness, he could at least say that he had been content, when he was at Vor’s side.

Until Vor had been murdered in front of Holland’s eyes, and Holland had been powerless to save him.

The years that followed Vor’s death were years that Holland wanted never to think about again, and, as such, he never seemed able to stop thinking about them. About Athos Dane, carving at his chest until he was bound to him, carving at his face just for the fun of it, carving at any piece of his body he was in the mood to see bleed on any particular day, as if Holland was a slab of rock and Athos was a sculptor. Athos Dane, grinning in the face of Holland’s pain, looking positively  _ euphoric _ every time Holland could hold in his screams no longer. Athos Dane, who would hold Holland down in bed, who would hit him whenever he tried to fight back, who would force himself into him and break Holland in the most intimate way. Athos Dane, Holland’s captor and king, his torturer and bedfellow, his nightmare and reality. 

And of course, there was Astrid Dane, who took a perverse pleasure in watching Holland suffer at her brother’s hands, who cut him up and healed him again just to reopen the same wound, whose sharp words sliced even deeper than the blades against his skin or the whip at his spine. 

Whatever happiness Holland had known before becoming the Danes’ plaything, they certainly made quick work at hollowing out that part of him. They had broken him so thoroughly, had delighted in watching the light go out of his eyes, had cherished the way he fought less and less every day, against every new pain. 

They broke him into so many pieces that Holland didn’t think he would ever be able to put himself back together again. There would always be pieces missing or out of place, pieces that had been lost forever. He would forever be the patchwork boy, sewn together from whatever scraps he had managed to salvage.

Holland scoffed to himself at the thought.  _ The patchwork boy _ . What a long way he had come from fancying himself the Someday King. 

The only thing that kept him from following completely into despair under the Danes was the thought that one day, he would be the one to kill them. He hadn’t figured out how, but he knew, deep in his gut, that it would be him to sever the Danes from their lives. It was his right; it was the only thing he was sure of. It was the only thing that made the pain bearable.

And then Kell  _ fucking _ Maresh from  _ fucking  _ Red London and his  _ fucking _ pet thief had come and taken even that away from him, too, and his one chance at possessing any semblance of peace, any sliver of contentment, had blown away like a sandcastle caught in a sudden wind. 

And then - well, then Kell had killed him. 

And Holland had been filled with no fear, no anger - just relief. That it was over. That the pain would no longer greet him like an old friend. That the Danes would no longer haunt him. That his life, short and full of so much -  _ too much _ \- anguish and hurt and pain, had finally come to an end. 

But of course, nothing could be that easy for Holland because he had woken up in fucking  _ Black London _ , of all places.

And full of hope, his mind swimming at the thought of a second chance, of living a life free from the Danes, of making a profound difference for the  _ better _ , Holland had welcomed in Osaron. 

All Holland had wanted was to fix his home. All he had wanted was to make London,  _ his _ London, full of the kind of happiness and laughter and light and energy that he had felt in those stolen moments that he’d walked the streets of Kell’s London. He wanted the people,  _ his _ people, to feel safe, wanted to show his world that a benevolent king could exist and rule and hold power, wanted to prove that his city wasn’t ruined beyond repair.

He had been so unfathomably  _ stupid _ .

After everything Holland had gone through, after every terror he had seen, after every pain he had endured, he had actually been  _ stupid _ enough to let hope back in, to believe that Osaran was the one who could truly help him restore London. He had opened himself up to betrayal, that easily, as soon as Osaran’s whispered promises had entered his mind. 

Holland supposed he had a penchant for trusting the wrong kind of people.

No more.

After Osaran had left him, after he had been imprisoned in Kell’s London by the king, after he had joined Kell’s ragtag group of merry misfits in their doomed quest to defeat Osaran, after they actually  _ had _ managed to defeat Osaran - after and through all of that, Holland had been absolutely certain of one thing: he didn’t trust a damned one of them.

He didn’t trust Kell, who had already killed him once, even when he began to stare at him less like he was a threat and more like he was an ally. Holland didn’t even trust that look, genuine as it seemed. It was a ploy, an act so that Holland would let his guard down, so that it would be easier to catch him unawares later, when he was finally good and ready to stick him through the heart a second time. He didn’t trust Kell, even with his sincerity, even with his emotions written clearly across his face. He didn’t even trust him after he’d been the one to free Holland from his chains, from his cell. No, it was a trap, just like Talya was a trap, just like Osaran was a trap, and Holland would be damned if he fell for the same thing twice.

And he didn’t trust Delilah Bard, with her quick tongue and her quicker hands. The thief stared at him with blatant hatred, not even bothering to attempt to hide the emotion in the set of her eyes, the tension in her jaw whenever he was near. She had tried to kill him more than once, and even when reprimanded from her black-eyed prince or her captain, she only shrugged the action off, as if it was of no consequence. Holland would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious about the girl from the London with no magic, but he wasn’t curious enough to let his guard down around her, wasn’t curious enough to try to wedge his way into her good graces (Holland wondered if the girl even  _ had _ any good graces; she was prickly and short-tempered even around Kell, who he could tell she was the most comfortable with). No, Holland simply sat aside and allowed her to hate him because he wouldn’t be able to change her mind, anyway, and even if he could, he wasn’t so sure he deserved her forgiveness. Even after saving her life in Rosenal, he didn’t deserve it. Didn’t  _ want _ it. 

He definitely didn’t trust Alucard Emery, the nobleman turned pirate, although out of everyone he had met in Kell’s London, he had to admit that Alucard was the one who was the least irritating to be around. Alucard, of them all, was able to forget about Holland’s history the quickest and the longest, and Holland could always see in the man’s gaze exactly when he remembered, the way his eyes shuttered and his body stiffened. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t known Holland as long as Kell had, hadn’t known what Holland was capable of, hadn’t been a direct target of his; perhaps it was because Holland had never killed anyone important to him, the way he had with Delilah’s tavern owner. But Holland had heard the way Alucard said the prince’s name in conversation, and Holland knew well enough that whatever misfortune had befallen Rhy, that blame would squarely be placed upon him, in Alucard’s eyes, for bringing this danger into their world in the first place. As such, there was no trust between the men. 

And then there was Jasta, who Holland plain and simple did not  _ like _ . She was hulking and brutish and rude, and her crew consisted of a thieving little girl and a blind old man, and Holland, on principle, did not trust anyone who kept such unsavory company. 

Not that he had much right to judge.

And so, after everything was over, he was determined to go back to London.  _ His _ London. What he intended to do once he returned, he wasn’t yet sure. He wouldn’t return to the palace; he had no place there anymore. He had accepted that there was no Someday King, that that was no more than a fairy tale, and he was sure that when he got back, whoever was ruling his London would not be so forgiving as he would have been, as king. He couldn’t very well walk the streets, now that his magic had left him (and how utterly  _ empty _ he felt now, with no power to draw upon, when he had once been the most powerful magician across all four worlds). Truthfully, there was nothing waiting for him in his London, no more than there was anything waiting for him here, in Kell’s London, or in Delilah’s London, or in Osaran’s London. 

But the fact of the matter was that he didn’t belong here. He belonged in his London, where he grew up, where the streets were as familiar to him as the lines in his palm. Even if he met a swift death there, at least he would die somewhere where he had once, in another lifetime, so long ago that he could barely remember the feeling, been loved. Somewhere he had loved in return.

And really, maybe a swift death wouldn’t be so bad.

He was so tired. His body, his mind, his soul, every facet of him was exhausted, a kind of exhaustion that could not be cured with sleep. His heart ached incessantly, his mouth was set in a permanent frown, and his eyes (his two green eyes, so strange in his face) were perpetually and eternally  _ sad _ . 

Now that there were no Danes to kill and no dark magic to defeat, now that he had forever given up his hope of becoming the Someday King and fixing his homeland, he wondered if there was really anything worth going on for, if there was anything worth enduring this constant pain and heartache and sadness for. 

He didn’t think so. He had nobody to go back to. He had no goal to stick around to see through. 

It was finished.

His last great sacrifice, giving up his magic to seal away Osaran - it was the single good thing he had done in his entire life, and he would be lying if he said he hadn’t been hoping he’d perish in the effort. To martyr himself - it would have been a good way to go. A  _ good _ way, in every sense of the word.

And,  _ saints _ , Holland had always wanted to be good.

But now it was over, and Holland was still alive. And he was more lost now than he had ever been before. Now, that he was not in chains, that he was free to find a home wherever he chose, that he could make a life for himself wherever he wished. Now, that he could choose to stay here, in Kell’s London, or even go to Delilah’s London, where he could become a stranger, lose himself in a new life entirely of his making. Now that he had the freedom to do as he wished, he found he wanted nothing more than to just… do nothing. 

He was tired of the uphill battle. He was tired of the struggling. He was tired of the pain, the melancholy, the exhaustion.

He was just… tired.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to go to his London, where he could make his final peace, and simply - cease to be.

“You can stay here, you know.” 

The cool voice broke Holland out of his reverie, and he simply turned his head to the side in acknowledgment of Kell’s presence. He didn’t startle easily, not anymore. 

Kell took up the space beside him, careful to keep a certain amount of space in between them. As if he thought that perhaps Holland hadn’t heard him, he repeated, “You could stay here.”

Holland was already shaking his head. He leaned his elbows onto the balcony’s railing, staring at the Isle in the distance, that vibrant red stream so unlike anything from where Holland was from. He remembered looking at the Isle for the first time and thinking,  _ If a place like this exists, what cruel gods put me in the London that I call home? _

How different everything would have been, had Holland only been born to a different London. How different his life’s story would have been. He didn’t think he would even be able to recognize the boy he would have become, had he only been born here. 

He wondered if Kell had any idea how lucky he was, to have been given this life. 

But then, the lucky very rarely understood their privilege. Perhaps he understood, in a vague way, the way someone who was born rich understood that they were lucky not to be born poor. But without ever having walked in those shoes, it was impossible to really gauge the full extent of that luck. 

“I have nothing here,” Holland said simply, the words sounding empty even to his own ears. When had that started, he wondered? When had the life been stolen from his voice? He had once been a little boy, so full of energy and exclamations. Now, his tone was a study in monotony, in hollowness. 

“And you have so much waiting for you in White London?” 

Holland didn’t answer. He clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to have this particular discussion with Kell, so he simply turned to him, one hand gripping the cane he now used to keep his body upright. How weak he had become, without his magic. “I’m ready to go home.” 

Kell stared at him for several seconds, and Holland couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but he saw the way Kell was looking at him, his brow furrowed, his head cocked slightly to one side, as if he was studying him. 

Holland was just opening his mouth to repeat himself when Kell said, “I think you should stay.” 

Holland blinked at Kell several times, taken aback by the conviction in his voice. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t even know if I can take you through without killing you in the process.”

Holland almost snorted. “That’s not really your concern, is it?” 

“It is,” Kell insisted. “You won’t be safe there.”

“Again, not your concern.” 

Kell opened his mouth, shut it. His jaw feathered, he pulled his lower lip between his teeth, and he looked away from Holland, out into the Isle far below. Holland watched with a bored sort of interest. He didn’t understand why Kell was having so much trouble accepting Holland’s decision. He had killed him once, after all. Holland would have thought Kell would be jumping with glee at the idea of being rid of him once more. Although, admittedly, Kell didn’t seem the jumping-with-glee sort of type. That was more his brother’s brand of enthusiasm. 

“Look,” Kell finally said, turning to look Holland in the face once more, and Holland was struck by the sincerity there, the complete and utter openness of his features. Holland hadn’t been looked at like that in so long. 

_ It’s a trick _ , a part of his mind insisted.

And then, quiet, another part of his mind countered,  _ It’s just  _ Kell.

Kell, who had freed him when everyone else had tried to kill him, and that had been no trick.

Kell, who had argued with his precious thief when she had tried to take his life, and that had been no trick.

Kell, who had shown Holland more compassion than he had received in so many years, and that had been no trick.

Tricks had a purpose, and to what end would that compassion have served? The enemy was defeated, and the axe hadn’t fallen yet.

“Look,” Kell said again, drawing Holland’s attention back to him instead of in his own head, “I know you’ve been through a lot, and I know you don’t trust me or Lila. I’d be lying if I said we trusted you completely, either. But what we went through - we went through it together. As  _ Antari _ . And I think that counts for something.”

Holland was already opening his mouth with a rebuttal, but Kell held up a hand, staying Holland’s tongue. 

“If you go back to your London, you’ll be killed,” Kell continued. “And that’s  _ if _ you survive the trip there, which we both know you might not. Call me sentimental, but I’m not eager to rid the world of an  _ Antari _ , power or no. I didn’t want to the first time, and I certainly don’t want to now. We’re a dying breed, if you haven’t heard.” The corner of his mouth twisted with the smallest hint of wry humor before it was gone. “And if you had asked me a couple of weeks ago, I would have said that I wanted nothing to do with you. But now, after everything, I’m not so sure that’s true anymore.” He did look away now, focusing his eyes onto his feet, clad in a pair of boots designed to weather the environment he’d be exposed to on the open sea. “You said you have nothing here, but you don’t have anything where you’re from, either. And I’m  _ offering _ you something. Another chance. Another life.” His gaze flicked back up to Holland’s, full of sincerity. “An opportunity to heal.” 

Holland swallowed, ripped his eyes away from Kell’s, not trusting himself under the pressure of that honesty. 

_ You trust too easily _ , a part of his mind insisted.

And then, quiet, another part of his mind countered,  _ But this is  _ Kell _. _

And it was true. He always had been awfully sentimental about the fact that they were two - then three, now two again - of a dying breed. Even if Holland wasn’t an  _ Antari _ anymore, that didn’t change what they had gone through together  _ as Antari _ . 

Holland forced himself to meet Kell’s gaze again. “Delilah would never allow it. And last I heard,  _ she _ was the captain of this ship.”

“You’re forgetting that you saved her life,” Kell said.

“You’re forgetting that I killed someone she loved. I’m not sure we’re equal.” 

“Trust me, you and Lila will never be equal.” 

Years and years and years ago, Holland would have flinched at the cruelty of the words. Now, he barely felt the barb sting his skin. “My point exactly.”

Kell’s mouth twisted in another hint of a smile, although this time, the humor was evident. “I’m pretty sure that, according to Lila, nobody is her equal. Not even me.” 

Holland felt a flash of irritation. “ _ You _ never killed anybody she cared about. I don’t think you can compare our standings with Captain Bard.” 

Kell quirked a brow, as if Holland’s annoyance was  _ amusing _ to him. “If you go around calling her Captain Bard, I’m sure you’ll be forgiven in no time.” 

“This isn’t a  _ game _ , Kell. This is my  _ life _ I’m talking about.” 

“And that’s the problem,” Kell shot back, all humor gone from his features, from his voice. “You value your life so little, Holland. You don’t think you’re worth happiness. You want to throw your life away, die in a London where nobody cares about you, where nobody even remembers your name, and for what? I’m trying to do you a kindness-”

“A kindness, is it?” Holland asked, cutting off Kell’s stupid, self-important speech with his cold words. Because this was how it always was with Kell. Kell, the hero. Kell, the martyr. Kell, the saint. Holland didn’t know how anyone could stand to spend so much time around somebody so self-righteous. “Is it a kindness to let me dream every single night of Athos Dane cutting me to pieces? Is it a kindness to let me walk every day, haunted by the ghosts of those I loved and lost? Tell me, Kell, is it a  _ kindness _ to give me false hope that I could be happy again when I don’t even know what happy  _ is _ anymore? You’re not doing me a kindness. You’re doing  _ yourself _ one, giving yourself one more lost cause to try to save because you have a hero complex that can never be sated, even after saving the entire fucking  _ world _ . Don’t you dare talk to me about  _ kindness _ , as if you’re doing this for me instead of for yourself.”

Immediately after this little speech left his mouth, Holland wished he had never said anything at all. He pulled the mask back over his features, quickly, trying to smooth away the anger and distress he had just shown, the vulnerability he had just given to Kell.

_ Stupid _ .

He turned his body back towards the Isle, leaning his elbows on the railing of the balcony once more in the quiet that followed his tirade. 

“Believe it or not, Holland,” Kell said, his words gentle, far too gentle for Holland’s liking, “I  _ care _ about people. You think that I have some hero complex, and maybe I do, but if I do, it’s not for the sake of being regarded as a hero. I couldn’t care less about that. The only thing I care about is the people who I let close to me and their happiness. I care about Rhy. I care about Lila. And, I hate to admit it, but I think I’m even starting to care about Alucard. Not that I’d ever tell that to him.” Kell paused, and Holland could practically see him biting his lip without ever having to look, that nervous habit of his that he’d never been broken of. “I care about you.” 

Holland went perfectly still. 

“I know that’s probably hard to believe, but I do. You don’t just -  _ save the world _ with someone and not care about them, when it’s all over.” There was a question in his words, as if he was asking Holland if the feeling was mutual.

Holland didn’t say anything.

_ Did _ he care about Kell? He didn’t know. He wanted to say no, that Kell was nothing to him, but he wasn’t so sure if that was true anymore. It was like Kell said. Between the doom of Osaran’s power hanging over them in the palace, to their four-day excursion to sea, to the damned  _ Antari _ binding rings, to the multiple times they’d saved each other’s lives, to the aftermath of that final battle - how could you go through all that and  _ not _ care? Even a little bit? 

“Delilah still won’t like it,” Holland said, when it became evident that Kell wouldn’t go on until Holland said something. “And I still would rather just try to go home.” 

“Lila will come around,” Kell insisted, and Holland swore that Kell’s voice swelled a bit, with something like hope, like he thought that Holland would give in and agree to this mad idea. “How about this: you come with us, and if you decide, next time we dock, that you want out, I’ll take you back to White London, no questions, no convincing? All you’d have to do is say the word, and I’ll take you.” 

Holland turned the idea over in his mind. 

If he were lucky, Delilah would kill him quicker than anyone from his London ever would. And if the end result was the same, then why did it really matter where he was when he went? Kell had a point; nobody in his London likely cared about him or his absence. They’d probably already found a new ruler and had forgotten his name.

At least if he died here, by Delilah’s hand, the thief would have a furious Kell to answer to, and - well, that was worth  _ something _ , he supposed. There would be no glory in that death, but at least it would mean something to  _ someone _ . Besides, his days of dreaming of glory were long gone. 

And even if he didn’t die by Bard’s hand, Kell was giving him an out next time they docked, so, really, there was nothing to lose. He was eager to be home, to close the book of his life, but perhaps one more adventure, one that had nothing to do with saving the world or the Danes or his London at all - perhaps that would do him some good. Perhaps it would, as Kell had said, do something to heal the broken bits of him. 

So, finally, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “You’re the one with the power to travel between worlds,” as if that made any difference at all, as if Kell wouldn’t take him back if he demanded it now. It was a feeble excuse; he knew it, and he knew Kell knew it, but Kell didn’t call him out on it. 

And so, an hour later, Holland was back on board a ship - a fucking  _ ship _ , he  _ hated _ ships, he didn’t know  _ why _ this ever seemed like a good idea, but at least this one was bigger than that fucking  _ skiff _ they’d boarded last time. 

The first night, he spoke to no one except for Kell, and even then, only when he had to.

The second night was much the same.

By the third night, the crew members were getting used to his presence, were asking him to dine with them, were prying into his personal life, although none took offense when he refused to answer these questions.

By the fourth night, the gentle rocking of the ship had started lulling him to sleep, and sleeping on the ocean, he found, helped to keep the nightmares away.

By the fifth night, he had made the acquaintance of a drunk crew member, a woman named Sash whose delicate features seemed entirely out of place on this ship full of rough hands and rougher personalities.

It wasn’t until the second week that he finally garnered Delilah’s approval and acceptance.

And how did he do this?

By outsmarting her in a game of Sanct, of course.

(In all honesty, Holland had no idea what the rules of the game were. He had seen the crew members playing it below decks many times, and he watched with rapt attention, but he could never make any sense of what was happening. It felt as though, with every passing game, a new rule had been added, or one taken away. He’d finally realized that it wasn’t about the game itself so much as it was about the  _ way _ it was played. It was a thief’s game, a criminal’s game, a  _ pirate’s _ game, one that was designed to break the rules and to cheat, and when Holland realized this, it became so much easier to follow the exchanges.)

He had waited until Delilah had won her third round in a row and asked if there were any more takers when Holland stood and claimed the seat opposite her.

She had stared at him with those narrowed, distrustful eyes of hers, her smiling lips pulled down into a scowl as he lowered himself onto the barrel that served as a seat. For a moment, Holland was sure she was going to refuse to play against him.

But then, and perhaps most surprising of all, her smile returned, a cruel thing, and she dealt the cards. 

Holland intentionally lost the first couple of hands. Every time a desirable card found its way into his hand, he slid the card up into his sleeve, hiding it, saving it for later use. He purposefully played his lowest cards, feigning ignorance of the game, let Delilah win with cards that were themselves relatively low, since Holland was stockpiling all the high-scorers in his sleeve. 

After losing three hands in a row, Holland preceded to win five. All with his head heavy from drink (because Sanct was, in addition to a game for cheaters, also a game for drunkards). 

When he had won his fifth hand, making himself the winner of their game, he didn’t quite smile at her, but his expression was full of triumph.

Delilah had looked positively  _ murderous _ . She even threw a knife, point-down, into the middle of the table before shoving out of her seat and stumbling away from the makeshift table, allowing whoever wished to play against the winner to take her seat.

Holland quickly uprooted the knife from the table and stuck it in his belt so that no one else would take it before he found himself playing a game against Sash. Holland wondered about Sash, about the way he found her in his peripheral vision more often than he could count. He wondered if she was seeking him out or if it was simply a cosmic coincidence. (Holland didn’t really believe in coincidences, though, not anymore. He didn’t want to contemplate what that meant about Sash.) 

The next day, he found Lila at the steering wheel of the ship and tried to return the blade to her.

She flashed him a cutting smile. “Keep it. You earned it,” she said, before training her eyes back on the horizon. “I’ll win it back from you, anyway. Either that, or I’ll kill you with it. I guess it all depends on my mood.” 

Holland had been, quite frankly, astounded that she’d said those words to him. Not about killing him (he would have been surprised if she  _ hadn’t _ made a threat against his life) but about the knife.

_ Keep it. You earned it _ .

He knew how fond Delilah was of her knives. For her to tell him to keep it, even if she had every intention of getting it back - not only did it show that she trusted him with the weapon, but it was also perhaps the closest thing to acceptance, to  _ forgiveness _ , that he would ever get from her.

When the ship next docked to resupply, Holland had gotten off the ship, to feel the solid ground beneath his feet, and Sash had looped an arm through his and dragged him to a tavern for a hot meal and loud conversation.

Over the course of that meal, Holland found himself comparing the woman to Talya. Sash was so different from his former lover, with her musical voice and her lilting laugh. Sash was loud and bawdy and quick-tempered, a blade thrust through her hair at all times, her darting eyes always seeking out a fight. She relished violence, found pleasure in hard work, and spoke her mind as bluntly as any woman Holland had ever met. Her soft, delicate features were only a trap for the personality that hid underneath. She possessed very little magic, but she held herself as if she was an  _ Antari _ . That kind of confidence was disorienting to Holland.

Most importantly to Holland, Sash never asked about his past. Even when the other crew members tried to unravel the mystery behind his sad eyes, his wrecked body, the scars that covered him like a second skin, Sash never once asked a question about where he had been, what he had done before he found himself on the  _ Night Spire _ . Instead, she asked him his favorite color, if he liked animals, what his favorite book was. Instead, she told him pirates’ tales and tried to teach him the lyrics to her favorite sea shanties. She was perfectly happy to carry the conversation for the both of them, as if she understood that Holland wasn’t quite alright, as if she could see that Holland was perpetually haunted, as if she somehow knew that Holland would rather listen to her talk for hours than ever utter a single word about himself.

And every once in a while, Holland would see that abrupt flash in her own eyes, the way her joviality would sometimes come to a halt, her eyelids drooping and her shoulders sagging, signs that spoke of her own tormented history. And he found himself wondering where she was before she became part of the  _ Night Spire _ ’s crew, what had happened to her, how she’d gotten that scar that slashed from the top of her forehead down to the corner of her mouth that she hid with her hair most days. He found himself wondering and realized that he  _ wanted _ to know. He wanted to know more about Sash, about her life, about how she came to be who she was. 

And he wondered, very briefly, if someday, maybe, he would ever be able to find the voice to tell her what had happened to him. Not now. Not tomorrow, or a week from now, or even a year from now. Maybe he would never in his life be able to put words to the horrors that plagued him. 

But maybe, someday - maybe he  _ would _ . 

That was something he had never thought he’d be able to regard even as a possibility, but now, looking at Sash, he wasn’t so sure.

There was that part of his mind that was telling him not to trust her, that all of this was a trick, that nothing good could ever come from the burden of caring again, the burden of being cared about. But he wasn’t being hunted anymore, he had to remind himself, and he wasn’t an enemy, not to these pirates, not anymore. He had no real reason to fear. 

But the fear was always there. 

When the  _ Night Spire _ lifted anchor, Holland found himself getting back onto the ship. He pointedly ignored the stupid, hopeful smile Kell had given him as he made his way below decks and thrown himself onto a hammock to nap. The last thing he wanted was to have another sentimental conversation with Kell, about what it meant that he stayed, about the tiny ember of hope that was beginning to spark in his chest. Holland didn’t want to put much stock in that hope, knew nothing good could come of it.

Yet there it stayed.

He didn’t quite smile as he threw his arm over his shut eyes and settled in to sleep, but he wasn’t quite frowning, either. 

And he supposed that was a start.

His peace was ruined when a heavy weight landed on his chest, so sudden that it pressed the air from his lungs. His eyes opened and he sat up quickly, already reaching for a weapon, only to meet the raised eyebrows of Captain Delilah Bard.

“If you’re staying on my ship, you need to start pulling your weight,” she said before turning briskly and walking away from him, up the stairs that lead to the deck.

Holland looked at the weight on his chest and he stifled a groan, but he threw his legs over the side of the hammock and hauled the coils of heavy rope over his shoulder, his body buckling only slightly underneath the weight. 

His relationship with Delilah was rocky at best, would likely always  _ be _ rocky at best (much the same way, he thought, as the relationship between the pirate Alucard and Kell), but if he was going to stay on this ship, on  _ her _ ship, he figured doing whatever she told him was a good way to make up for the many wrongs he had committed by her.

He sighed inwardly and repeated the words to himself internally.

_ It’s a start _ .

 

* * *

 

 

**Two Years Later**

 

Holland was leaning on the railing of the ship, staring at the palace looming in the distance.

He wasn’t exactly keen on returning to the palace, to the land where so much had happened, the land that carried so many memories he’d sooner forget.

But his years with Kell and Delilah and Sash and the rest of the crew had taught him that he was more than what he had done.

He was more than what he had gone through.

He was more than his history. He was more than Alox and Talya, more than Vortalis and the Danes. He was more than the torture he had endured under the Danes, more than Osaran, more than his stupid, careless mistakes. He was more than the wrong decisions he’d made for the right reasons. He was more than  _ Antari _ , more than the Someday King, more than the patchwork boy. He was more than his betrayals and his history of being betrayed. He was more than a traitor, more than a prisoner. He was more than what his hands had done, more than what his body had done.

He was Holland Vosijk. 

And in his London, that had meant nothing, and then it meant something, and then it meant nothing again.

And in Kell’s London, that had meant a traitor, an enemy, a prisoner.

But out at sea - all of that fell away, and he became more than his titles, more than his past.

He just became Holland Vosijk, crew member of the  _ Night Spire _ . Nobody looked further than that because nothing else mattered. As long as he pulled his weight, he was alright by everybody else.

He wasn’t keen on returning to the palace, but he thought that it wouldn’t be so bad now. He had people at his back, after all. He had people who would defend him. He had people who  _ cared _ about him, really cared about him. 

When he looked at Sash, he couldn’t believe how lucky he was, to be trusted with love and to allow himself to love again in return.

When he looked at Kell, he couldn’t believe how far they had come, how much Kell had sacrificed for Holland, to get him to where he was today.

When he looked at Lila, he couldn’t believe that he was worthy of her forgiveness, and yet, she gave it to him, anyway. Even though she still didn’t necessarily like him, even though she still didn’t trust him, they had managed to reach an understanding built upon respect and familiarity. 

When he looked at the palace, he no longer saw a prison. He only saw a stop, a detour in his ultimate journey. Where that journey would lead him, he had no idea, but that thought didn’t scare him like once it might have.

He found that a future shrouded in mystery wasn’t such a bad thing, after all. He found that a future in which he was unchained, unbound from anyone or anything, a future in which he had the freedom to do as he wished - it was more than he had ever hoped for. 

Holland tipped his head back, letting the warmth of the sun wash over his pale skin, his white hair. He breathed in the scent of the sea. He opened his eyes to see a bird flying across the sky, graceful and full of life and  _ free _ .

Holland wanted so badly to be that bird. So untroubled, so unworried, so content.

“Silver for your thoughts?” 

Holland blinked the sunlight out of his eyes and turned to see Kell leaning against the railing. He remembered, suddenly, that day two years ago, when Kell had given him the opportunity to come out to sea with him, to heal and to find peace like he had never known before, had never known he  _ could _ feel. He remembered how he had so nearly refused. 

“Thank you,” Holland found himself saying, turning his attention back to the ocean, so vast and immeasurable. 

Kell didn’t say anything in reply, and the two of them just stood there, staring out at the open waters that they were putting behind them in favor of land. There was no tension in the silence that hung between them, only contentment.

Again, Holland shut his eyes against the breeze, tilted his head back, soaked in the sun. 

He felt something wet on his face, and he thought that perhaps it had started to rain, but then he realized that they were silent tears, tracking down his face. He was so startled that his eyes flew open and he nearly stumbled back. He raised a hand to his face, wiped the tears away, stared at the residue of them on his fingers in complete bewilderment.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. A lifetime ago. Longer. 

It had been so long since he’d felt anything with enough intensity to cry. 

He didn’t even know why he was crying now. 

He turned his wild, confused eyes to Kell, only to see the concern in Kell’s face shift to amusement, a smile twisting his features, smoothing that crease that was perpetually between his brows. 

And Holland didn’t know why, but he found himself doing something even more foreign than crying. He found himself  _ smiling back _ . Not just a twist of the lips, either, but a full, teeth-baring smile, and then, somehow, he was crying and smiling at the same time, and he thought perhaps he was more than a bit hysterical in that moment.

He heard the sound of Kell’s laughter, and Holland couldn’t force the smile from his features, couldn’t even muster the negative energy to feel embarrassed. 

Instead, he turned away from Kell, to face the ocean once more.

Once more, he shut his eyes, and once more, he threw his head back to the sun. He let the heat kiss his smiling lips, let the tears evaporate from his skin. 

_ Happy _ .

Holland turned the word over in his head, contemplating it, as one would contemplate a language that one could understand by sound alone but could not decipher when written on a page. It was somehow familiar but also so terribly, unspeakably foreign. 

_ Happy _ .

Holland thought that perhaps, he was finally relearning to read the language. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for any bookmarks, comments, and kudos! It means the world! And though it is not expected in any way, shape, or form, if you are interested in supporting a mentally ill and financially struggling content creator, please consider visiting [my Kofi page](https://ko-fi.com/isildursheirs)!


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